


while the iron is hot

by Laura JV (jacquez)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 11:37:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18051809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquez/pseuds/Laura%20JV
Summary: A case arouses Holmes’s interest.





	while the iron is hot

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [VictorianHolmesKinkmemeRound01](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/VictorianHolmesKinkmemeRound01) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Well, since we're calling it a kink meme, I'll go right ahead and be #basic about it: I just need a lot more of Sherlock Holmes getting spanked, okay. Not fussy about the details :D

I came home late from my club one evening to find Holmes laying papers out upon the floor, clearly hard at work on a case.

“My dear Watson,” he said, “please join me; you may be of some assistance.”

I hung up my hat and coat and sat upon my favorite chair, my leg being in nothing like good enough shape to sit upon the floor. Holmes handed me an envelope. “Tell me what you make of these,” he said, and I opened it to find — well, I shall not mince words — the most obscene collection of images. 

“Holmes!”

“Watson, please, tell me what you divine from those.”

I sighed, and looked down at them. There were five of them, featuring a tall, well-made man being birched and sodomized, by three different other men. “These would have been outrageously expensive,” I said, “so certainly whoever paid for them is a man of means. There are two sets, and then half of a third set — is there a missing photograph?” 

“Hah!” said Holmes, “just so. Our client is the gentleman in each, and he is being blackmailed following the theft of the missing one, which he had taken to carrying in his coat pocket.” 

“So,” I said, placing the envelope aside, “what have you found out about the blackmailer?” I knew Holmes very well, and his opinions on sexual vice were perfectly clear to me: if no innocent was harmed, he did not think such matters a concern for the police. I had never found the words to tell him about my own dalliances with men, but if I should have done so I am sure he would have accepted the news with equanimity.

He smiled up at me, and said, “His name is William Barrant, and I have found he, himself, has certain tastes, and might easily be enticed by a handsome man of military bearing. Do you happen to know any, Watson?”

I shook my head. “How shall I dress?” I asked, for it was no use protesting when Holmes had his heart set on a clever plan. And I am very easily led by him, in any case.

* * *

The case completed — the photograph retrieved, and the blackmailer left to the tender mercies of his employer (a man of some fifty years, who called himself by a woman’s name and who was displeased that one of his “pretty mollies” was mistreating a customer) — Holmes and I telegraphed the client to meet us and returned to our rooms.

The client — whose name I shall never reveal, and have not even recorded in my private notes — was a good deal handsomer than in his pictures, a very refined-looking fellow, and he blushed as he asked us to please, burn the letters and other papers — he cared only for his photographs, which he assured Holmes he would not be so foolish as to carry about with him any longer. 

“May I ask you a question, sir?” Holmes said, sealing the envelope of photographs and handing it over. 

“Certainly,” the client said. 

“The birching,” Holmes said. “Whatever is the appeal?” 

The client blushed again and lowered his eyes. “It is — stimulating — to be at the mercy of another.”

“Hm!” said Holmes. “Perhaps not at such mercy as to be vulnerable to blackmail.” 

“No,” agreed the client, and laughed. “That was not at all agreeable, sir. You are quite correct. But the other — the pain warms my blood, and I must place my trust in another, and it is — freeing, I suppose.” 

Holmes smiled. “Well, thank you for satisfying my curiosity on this matter, sir, and — take care, in the future.”

“Yes, of course,” the client said, and took his leave of us. 

Holmes remained silent for some minutes afterwards, and finally said, “You know, my dear Watson, that I have never been inclined towards—“ he gestured with one hand “—these sorts of things, but I cannot stop thinking about those damnable photographs.” He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and glanced at me, and then away. “And now, I find myself wondering if it is simply that I have never been properly, well, stimulated.” 

Now it was I who was silent, both in shock and because I was aware of the trust my friend was placing in me by saying such a thing. “I beg of you, Holmes,” I said, after a time, “if you do seek out such a diversion, do not — do not risk yourself, trusting someone who cares for you not a whit.” I was shocked at myself for saying it, shocked at the warmth between my legs and the fire in my belly, but it was true. If he wished someone to whip him to ecstasy, who better than myself? 

He crossed to the door, and locked it, then stood there with his palm on the jamb and his eyes on the floor. “Do you have a birch rod to hand, Watson,” he said, almost too quietly for me to hear.

I was trembling, and I thought he might be, too. I went to him, stood behind him, and placed one hand on his neck. He exhaled, sharp and swift. “No,” I said, equally quietly, “but will my hand serve?”

* * *

Thus it was that I came to have Holmes over the back of an arm-chair, his hands clenched in the upholstery and his trousers around his knees, while I warmed his skin with my hand. I began with sharp slaps at the center, then began to alternate between his buttocks. He whimpered at the fifth blow, and I hesitated. “For the love of God, keep going,” he said, quite breathless, and I did.

I had never spanked my wife — not being one of those men who thinks of a wife as a particular sort of child — and now I wondered if perhaps I ought to have introduced it to our bed-games, for certainly the sight and feel of Holmes under my hand — skin silky-soft and reddening, his entire body jerking when I struck him — was enticing, glorious. He had given in to me, yielded himself to me, and he arched and cried out softly again and again. My prick was heavy in my trousers, hot and swollen against my flies, and I paused to catch my breath. 

“Watson,” Holmes said, his voice breaking on my name, and I stroked the flaming skin of his arse gently. 

“Holmes,” I said, “tell me what you feel.”

“Oh God,” he said, and pressed his forehead into the chair’s back. “I haven’t been so aroused since I was in school.”

“At the mercy of puberty,” I said, and ran one hand down his spine. He shuddered, and folded one arm under his face.

“I had much rather be at your mercy,” he said.

I struck him again, below the marks I had already made, so that the blow made his bollocks swing. He bit down into his arm to stifle a cry. “God,” he said, again. I had never heard him blaspheme so much as today.

“Do you want to spend?” I asked, and he nodded frantically, never taking his face from his arm. “Shall I spend?” I asked, for I was uncertain how far he wished to take this — interlude — and would not press him too far for all the world. 

_“Please,”_ he said, his voice unsteady. “Watson, please.”

“Take yourself in hand,” I said, tracing circles on his reddened buttocks with my fingers, and he did, his shoulder and arm working. I kept one hand on him, pinching him now and then, as I stroked myself to my own crisis. I spent on his heated skin, and he spent into his own hand beneath me, and for some time there was no sound in the room but our breathing. 

“Oh,” he said, eventually, pushing himself to standing. “I. Well.”

I laughed, then, to have reduced him to mere sentence fragments. “Holmes,” I said, and brushed his cheek with my knuckles. “If you should wish to do that again, I beg you will let me know. And if you do not, rest assured I shall never mention it again.” 

He drew a deep, shaking breath. “Watson,” he said, “you are too kind to me, and I should not take advantage of it.”

I laid my hand on his back, just above the swell of his buttocks, and slipped my fingers through my own ejaculate, rubbing it into his skin. “There is no man on earth who could force me to go where I do not wish to go,” I said, and he gave a helpless little laugh, and lunged forward to kiss me.


End file.
